Suicide Kills, part 8

                Around one in the morning I woke with a browbeating migraine. It pulsed and throbbed behind my eyes and above my ears, like the techno music at the raves my friend Logan DJ’s for out in the boonies, just without the ecstasy and hard nipples. I thought about him for a second as I considered getting out of bed and harassing The Debra for drugs.

                Logan was the only male I’d allowed in my room since I…went through what I went through. Late at night after DJ’ing for the club or some private party, he would come by and sit in bed with me to watch Burly TV. No conversation. No cuddling. Just presence. And sonsa’bitches, did I ever need that. It was hard enough to be in a public room with other men at times, because a sudden move could bring back the worst sensations. I hadn’t really thought about him stopping by until that moment. He had really been there and understood something of what I was going through.
Why am I so blind to all of the good shit in my life? Why didn’t I tell him I appreciated him just being there for me? Why couldn’t I just look at him and say, 'Thanks for making the nights less lonely‘?

                No, my reaction had been to try and off myself. Classy, Brittni. Real damn classy.

I forced the self-scolding away and pulled the warm memories closer, trying to numb the pain a bit with happier times.

                A smile tugged at my lips. Back when Logan and I first met, I used to tease him about being a Spanish Jew, like Juan Epstein from "Welcome Back, Kotter". He, like me, had been adopted. In turn, he’d joke about me being a fake Wopper, since my Dad is half Italian. I didn’t often meet other secondhand-kids, so I guess we enjoyed our friendship a little more because of that.

                And now, here I was in the psych ward, trying to pretend I wasn‘t actually here. I’d say my five year plan was effectively fucked. Geez, I really need to work on this whole self thing.

                God damn it, Brittni. Stop annoying yourself and just concentrate on dialing back the headache. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply, recalling the time-honed skills of being a migraineur. Suddenly, Debra’s voice popped unwelcome into my thoughts, 'One being the lowest and ten being the highest, what level would you say your pain is at?'

                My God, that bitch can’t even leave me alone when I’m by my fucking self. Before I could even think about finding the Stirrup Troll, I had to get the pain down to a manageable level just to get out of bed and walk down the hall. Something like, 'Poking you in the eye being the lowest and stabbing you to death with a rusty needles being the highest, I’d say my level of pain was at shoving my foot up your ass.'

                I grinned at the image and instantly regretted it. A wave of pain swept over my ears and burrowed beneath my eyes. Tension swept through me. Breathe and think of friends, I told myself.

Despite every way I had managed to fuck up in my life, I had been lucky to meet some really phenomenal people, like Troy, Demarques, Logan.

                Even my roommate, Jennifer.

                Thinking of her swept me up into a whirlwind. I hoped she could one day forgive me for what I put her through. Nobody should ever have to scoop up a friend in the middle of committing suicide and rush them to the hospital. Tears stung my eyes and I blinked rapidly to banish them. Crying now would just make things worse. Still, it was hard to calm when surrounded by things I would not let myself forget. My memory wasn’t completely clear on the night of my suicide attempt, but I vaguely remembered her asking, "What have you done, now?"

                Not like I could blame her. She had every right, putting up with my mood swings and attitude for months. Did not make it less difficult to face, though. And God did it hurt, knowing if I had died she might always have thought of me like that. Not exactly the best last impression to gift a friend with.

                Trying to keep my head as immobile as possible, I rose from my narrow bed like the dead. They must think crazy people do not have fat asses, like disorders are only for the eating impaired, not the eating enthusiasts. I swear there is no sound reason for a bed to be that narrow. I kept the rails up every night, because the only way a three foot fall would not add to my problems is if I landed on my head.

                Entering the hall, I shuffled softly toward the nurses’ station. From the sound of the conversation trickling down the hall, it was shift change. The Debra was clocking out and going back to hell to torture excommunicated priests. Or so I assumed.

                "I don’t really think we have a choice, the poor dear. She’s a danger to herself and the other patients. We’re going to have to medicate her in the morning and send her to the state institution in Big Spring. I‘ll come in early and make sure everything goes as planned."

                A cold sweat broke out on my skin. She, who? She, Veronica?

                "Tonight proves we simply cannot allow her to remain here. I‘ve written up the report, all I need is for each of you to read and sign it." Debra continued.

                Slinking closer to the wall, I retreated in the other direction. They couldn’t send Veronica somewhere else. If they did, she would completely dissolve into herself. I considered my options, looking at the other patients doors.

                Marigold’s door was open. That‘ll work.

                I crossed the hall to her room. Moving slowly so I did not further set off my head, I pulled an elastic band from my wrist, tucked it around my thumb and over my index finger, then shot it at her snoring form.

                And… she promptly started choking.

                Shit. Good going, child prodigy. You wanted to wake her, not kill her, remember? You know, the opposite of yesterday?

                I hurried in and put my hand under her back, raising her to a sitting position. She wheezed, and finally spat out my hair band, "What the fu-"

                "Shh!" I whispered, patting her back.

                With an accusatory stare, she coughed a few more times and looked down at the spit soaked hair band on the blanket, quickly putting two and two together.

                "What the hell is the matter with you?" She demanded, sweeping the band onto the floor with an angry flick of her hand.

                "I’m sorry, but will you just shut the hell up?" I whispered.

                The whisper did the trick, partially. Lowering her voice, she whispered back, "What the hell are you doing in my room?"

                "I was masturbating to your snoring, until you threw me off my rhythm. What the fuck do you think I’m doing in your room? Trying to wake you up. Debra’s talking about Veronica, saying she’s going to send her Big Springs. Come on." I urged, impatiently.

                Without a word, she slid out of bed and we both crept back down the hall. The pounding in my head grew worse with each step, but I held the pain aloft.

                "I know you think she’s a sweet girl, Terry, but she’s still unstable. It took two orderlies to get her under control earlier in the evening." I heard Debra tell someone as we got closer and stopped. Voice full of exaggerated patience, just hearing her made me grit my teeth. She had been the one to instigate that little scene.

                "Look, Debra, I unda’stan that. But the patients here can’t be expected to be rational all the time. I mean, hello? Idn’t that why this’s a psych ward?" Terry’s response was surprisingly loud and close to the corner we listened at. I nudged Marigold’s shoulder, making her back up.

Marigold grabbed my hand and jerked it to get my attention. Who is that? She mouthed.

I shrugged and cocked my head back toward the voices.

                "She ain’t hurt nobody and she ain’t attack nobody, either. You told me all she did was yell, and then y’all all sedated her. That’s what we’re s’posed to do, Debra. Prevent all ‘ese patients from hurting theyselves or anybody else. Y’all did that. Cut her some slack. I ’magine this whole thing here can‘t be easy on her." Terry said.

                Terry must’ve grown up in a small town. There was no way in hell she got that accent living in San Angelo. That accent, thicker than bread puddin’ and more homey than decade old undies, said she had been made in a backseat of a hatchback out at the pump jacks or in the front seat of a pickup in a parking lot after a football game.

                I liked her, already.

                And for countering The Debra, I could’ve orally rowed Terry’s little man in the boat to Ireland. I was that grateful.

                "I know you’re new here, Terry, so you’re not familiar with her case history. This is not the first time Veronica has been a patient on this floor. She has a case file longer than both your legs put together. She’s a sociopath. She craves attention and is often very melodramatic when she does not get her way, which can make her dangerous. She needs to be sent somewhere else, because I refuse to be held responsible when something bad happens." Debra said.

                This daffy broad had a screw loose. A sociopath? Veronica? I struggled to keep from snorting.

                Bull butter.

                Veronica had a lot of problems, psychoses included, but being a sociopath was not one of them. If anything, both she and Jerrilyn suffered from caring too damn much.

                Debra, on the other hand, had a lot in common with the garden variety sociopath. The last thing Debra had said was Debra-in-a-nutshell. She didn’t want the responsibility Veronica’s recovery entailed. Being a nurse in a nuthouse was a perk for her, not a calling. She merely enjoyed the nobility of the profession. Any emotion she displayed in acting the part was all a part of the role, not the woman.

I wondered why Debra had chosen nursing. What in her life made her seek something to grant her a feeling of being useful, of contributing to society? Of societal acceptance? Why did she yearn for others to think of her as a good person? And how did Veronica’s very real issues threaten that? Was it someone Debra had failed? I scowled, trying to decipher her actions. The rest of us did not scare Debra, not like Veronica did. There had to be a why behind it.

                "You still need everybody’s signature fer’ her to be sent somewheres’ else, Debra. And you won’t be getting mine, I‘m telling‘ you that rit’ now." Terry stated, firmly.

                An uncomfortable silence filled the ward and I knew it was time to get the hell back to our rooms. Marigold followed my lead, and thankfully, did not argue. My head still throbbed painfully, but I did not want to see Debra’s face, even if to get some relief. Debra was trying to pawn Veronica off on somebody else, and her motive for doing it was entirely personal.